Regret

A student has made a formal complaint against me because I failed her last quarter. How dare I grade her down after she started to write the only major assignment the night before it was due? How could I "criticize" her writing as being inferior ("comparison to other students") or assert that her research design was methodological soup (phenomenological in-depth interviews, focus groups using an action research approach and grounded theory on top of that, plus comparison groups using a snowball sample. Good grief)? And how dare I accuse her of reading email and surfing the web in class? Even though her eyes were following something across the computer screen most of the time and her "note taking" appeared to have no relevance to what was being discussed in class.

It is a long, tangled story. She was going to have to wait an entire year to take the course again, thus falling behind her graduation target date. As a redemptive measure, I offered to teach an overload this quarter by offering the course again--as an independent study class. She enrolled but when she saw that the requirements would hold her accountable and force her to do the work she should have done last quarter, she braced for battle.

I got called in to my Chair's office and had to provide a written response with supporting documents. Of course, I had her support. But then I had to face off with the angry student, listen to her, and try to work out some compromise. Or not, and refer her on to the Dean to make a formal grievance at a higher level. The Chair assured me that this student didn't have a leg to stand on, but intimated that she hoped we could work things out without sending her up the ladder.

I'm not sure how or why this happened, but I completely caved in and capitulated to the student's wishes. There is something about having someone accuse, posture, and insist, with a smattering of "poor me" and "you're so unfair" --that knocks me sideways. After several minutes of hearing her accusations of how insensitive I was to her in class, and how she asked early in the class for exceptions, etc., etc., I began to second-guess myself. Not a lot about her comments resonated with me, but they did intimidate me on a very deep emotional level. I did not have it in me to say, "It's unfortunate that you earned an F on your paper last quarter. How do you propose to complete the assignments this quarter in a timely manner?" Or when she said she didn't have enough time to devote to the requirements this quarter, say "Maybe you should consider whether or not you should be signing up for a four-credit course if you can't devote the required time to it," or, "You will need to decide if you can do the work required in a doctoral course or not." Even, "Oh well..." would have been at least a response that pointed out that her request was unreasonable. I can respond to every single complaint and assertion she made--in hindsight. But at the time, I was filled with dread that perhaps she was right. I must be a heartless, partial, inexperienced, punitive teacher with excessive authority issues and who knows what else.
I asked her, very evenly, "What is it that you want?"
She told me in a rush of words.
"Well then, do it."
I turned to the computer, wrote down everything we discussed, printed it off and handed it to her.

I had lost patience and was fed up with the whole process--annoyed that I felt cowed into a corner by someone who was the most undeserving of grace at that moment. Fearful that the allegations I've heard from undifferentiated people in the past about my directness or academic standards, are unreasonable and cause pain. And I caved.

There are many reasons why. There have been many stressors lately: I've been sick and am not 100%. Mother's 195/98 blood pressure that elicited a panicked phone call moments before, only to find out that she hasn't been taking her medication. Exhaustion from helping another family member all weekend. My concerns that I'm really not doctoral education material. Acting as the liaison and quality assurance person for all of our students doing field work (this includes site visits to about 30 places each year--clear from Ventura, to San Diego and as far East as Indio). Putting together a medical family therapy certificate and trying to get it through the university red tape. Administering a $50,000 grant that I haven't enjoyed. Supervising therapy students working in doctor's offices. Teaching six classes this quarter--three of them brand new to me. Having my office books in boxes and working out of a small, chaotic space for two months while my new office is vacated.
But more personally, I have a long history in my family of facing serious consequences if I disagreed, pointed out problems, or challenged the status quo. There have been three times when I was essentially disowned by one or more family members because of choices I made or things I said--in sincerity and with good motives. The ensuing accusations have been outrageous: very painful and difficult to resolve. I've never had anyone else even hint in their behavior or words that these accusations can be correct. But they hurt and I don't want to feel that hostility leveled against me again. So I say nothing and fade into the background in order to avoid being wounded again.
It's true what the Bible says: "The anger of man does not work the righteousness of God." So I am justified in not flying back at people when they are unreasonable. But I feel as though my legs have been shot out from under me and I can't respond in a wise, firm, and calm way to those who use emotional means to intimidate.

It's easy to let things get to oneself, easy to become worn down with all the cares and stresses in life. At those times it's hard to hold the line. The student fairly danced out of my office with her new plan (new to me, but what she wanted all along). This was followed by me being fired as the chair of her dissertation committee. Amazing. She will be hard pressed to get other faculty to serve on her committee.
Her determination paid off, but the outcome is not in her best interest.

In retrospect, I know I made the wrong decision. This is someone who has consistently tried to slide by a number of academic requirements already. She has a reputation. Unfortunately, she won this battle. Perhaps. It all depends on how she writes her remedial paper (which other faculty members will be weighing in on gradewise, I assure you).

I don't recall ever feeling like I've hit a brick wall this hard. I was so determined to hold this student's feet to the fire, and when I reached inside for the wherewithal to make it happen, there was nothing. Humbled, annoyed, and hopefully wiser, I can look back on this with some insight. It is not a good thing to become overwhelmed with "life stuff." Being tired, sick, or anxious about non-academic issues can make it almost impossible to make good decisions or do good work. I must also resolve some hidden hurts. Additionally, students do not have to like me or agree with me to get the best educational experience that I can offer.

There are times in life when situational challenges converge and threaten to paralyze a person. It is then that the mundane things like predictable meals, self-discipline, enough sleep, reflection, recreation, faith, and self-care, make a big difference. Perhaps this is one reason that while on earth, Jesus often headed for the hills to get away and to pray His way through issues, to find strength to keep doing what He was here for. It seems to be one of those Kingdom-of-Heaven-rules: invest in God in quiet time, slow yourself down, give everything over to God, pray for wisdom, and do less--so you can do more.

This is why I've been so quiet lately. I've been busy beating myself up and wringing my hands about how to manage issues in my life that are tough to deal with. Perhaps an early morning conversation with God about family history and my needs for the new day will enhance inner healing and strengthen the inner core of resolve. I hope so.

Black History Month

Today I sat across from a client who told me the following story:
A well-known lecturer visited her school to give a seminar on some topic of his. The room began to fill up with about 40 students and teachers while the host and speaker chatted together in the front row. When it was time for the meeting to start, the host teacher walked to the podium and surveyed the room thoughtfully for a moment. She noticed that a number of people sat in a group in the front seats, and that about five Black teachers and students sat in a row at the back of the room against the wall.
"Come on up and sit here," she addressed the group of Black attendees. "You don't need to sit in the back anymore."

It was deathly silent. She looked around, smiled apologetically and said, "I hope no one is offended by that comment. It's just that you don't need to sit clear back there."

People of color were deeply offended, especially since this occurred right after a Martin Luther King celebration the day before. Making reference to civil rights struggles are not funny to a people whose blood was once spilled in the streets for no good reason. My client was shocked by the comment that had been made, and cited numerous other ways that she experiences marginalization every day. Another teacher frequently quotes White students in her class, but never repeats comments of Black or Hispanic students. Emails to White students are warm and humorous, but are cryptic and abrupt to Black students. And this teacher has the power to flunk her students. So it is no surprise that this client feels hypervigilant and sometimes sick to her stomach with anxiety in this teacher's class.
"Barbara, why does this still happen? It's at such a subtle level that no one can really attack the problem. Because if you do, you look like you're splitting hairs. But in the context of all the inequality and things like nooses that have been found hanging on the doors and in the lockers of upwardly mobile Blacks, this is frightening. It's making me ill."
I was impressed that a student her age could so clearly explain her response and articulate what was happening. But then, she has had years of watching this happen, receiving it, and thinking about what it is. I have not.
As I told her, I am White and I have White Privilege. I don't get questioned about my motives or intentions. I don't get stopped when I'm driving my car just because I'm in the "wrong" neighborhood. No one discriminates against me because of my race or ethnicity. I am recognized readily in classroom settings and my comments are not subject to scrutiny, nor are they marveled over skeptically with a "how did you know that?" People don't cross over to the other side of the street when they see me coming. I don't have the legacy of knowing that my family tree cannot be traced because my great grandparents were sold down the river.
I felt terrible about what Kimberly was experiencing. It may not sound like much to a White person, but a it would if it came in a reasonably steady stream and provoked one's anxiety.
We talked for awhile about my client's feelings of impotence and frustration. We discussed how she might decide if she should confront the teacher, or speak to an ombudsman, or the school principal. There is clear risk in each of these actions--risk that I may not be aware of because I would not have negative responses should I approach any of these people. But she very well could.

It was interesting for me to reflect on my experience as I helped Kimberly clarify what had happened and how she was affected by it. I felt a rush of shame that someone like me had offended her. I couldn't make up for it but I wanted to somehow. Yet this is the way life is. I can't protect her, only empower her to advocate for herself, think about her options, and move toward life experiences that fulfill and value her for who she is. At the same time, I feel some annoyance that life has to be so complicated and that people have to watch everything they say. That we have to worry about saying or doing something that is politically incorrect. Our country didn't used to be so pluralistic--it was all White, Protestant, hard-working, patriarchal, English-speaking, family-oriented, heterosexual. Now, everything is different and we must view reality through the eyes of many other kinds of people than how we used to.

I remember living in Hattiesburg Mississippi during the civil rights era--1961 - 1964. Even though I was a sheltered little girl, there was an awareness that the world was not a safe or pleasant place. We went to a Sears store one time in Jackson--my older sister, brother, parents, and me. As we were shopping, my sister saw a drinking fountain and helped herself to a good, long drink. She was too young to be able to read the "Colored" sign that hung over the fountain where she was drinking. A pipe came from the wall and split into two directions: left to the "Colored Fountain" and right to the "Whites Only" fountain.
We all stood by while Dana got her drink.

A store clerk--a man of about 35 or so--rushed over to us. "Don't let her drink out of that fountain!" he fairly shouted in a panic. "It's the Colored Fountain!"
My very Northern father quietly said, "But it comes from the same source as the White Fountain, so what's the difference?" Daddy studied the man with a bit of challenge in the way he held his head.
"Get out of here!" the man demanded. "We don't need your kind in here! N--lovers!"
Daddy demured.
"Get out! You will not get service in here." He stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at us. I was scared to death and started crying.
I don't remember more than that, except that it was awful. Daddy was livid and Mother was indignant. They sputtered all the way home in the car. And as an adult I'm incensed at the humiliation and unnecessary segregation and pain that was leveled at Blacks during those very dark years. But I didn't do it. My people did--and that makes me feel silenced sometimes when called upon to respond to things that are happening. I either want to apologize for centuries of anti-Black behavior, or ignore that it exists altogether.

Discrimination still happens, only at a very different level. In defense of the teacher who made the comment at the beginning of this post, she makes terrible verbal blunders on a regular basis. I know this because I know her. She often says things without thinking about the implications of her words. She doesn't filter what comes out of her mouth very well. But she doesn't have a malicious bone in her body. In fact, she feels that she is a champion for diversity. She talks a lot about power differentials due to gender, race, socioeconomic status, etc. But it is hard for her to put it into practice all the time. She has no idea of how she has put the Black community off by what seemed to be a humorous comment.

As we reflect on Black History Month events, perhaps it is useful to think about our own individual journeys in terms of embracing people who are different than we are. All of us bring life experiences to the table: events in which we were harmed or had a negative reaction to a person of color. Or when we were resentful that we have had to move over and make space for someone who previously was not invited to the table. It is hard sometimes to learn new table etiquette and converse in culturally sensitive ways. However if we were all the same, life would be pallid at best and intolerably boring at worst.

I hope my young student finds grace as she begins to openly address these issues that look very different from her perspective.

Zerephath

"But in truth, I tell you, there were many widows in Israel in the days of Elijah, when the heaven was shut up three years and six months, when there came a great famine over all the land; and Elijah was sent to none of them but only to Zarephath, in the land of Sidon, to a woman who was a widow. And there were many lepers in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha; and none of them was cleansed, but only Naaman the Syrian." When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with wrath. And they rose up and put him out of the city, and led him to the brow of the hill on which their city was built, that they might throw him down headlong.

An acquaintance of mine, whom I'll call Sylvia, went off to another state to go to graduate school (no, this isn't a story about me). She had a hard time finding a church to fit into because most of the ones she visited had rather proscribed ideas about the role of women. And as she is an extremely intelligent woman with strong ideas, she found it very hard to be minimized and have her voice silenced by patronizing comments every week in church. She didn't go very often therefore, even though she had a rich spiritual life with her colleagues at the university.

One week she decided to go to a little church nearby. It was hard to miss out on fellowship week after week when she was accustomed to participating in church. Sylvia went just about the time that the class was starting and the pastor was teaching it. Maybe it would be a good discussion.
In fact, it just happened to be about a topic that she was studying at the university, and she was eager to weigh in on it. So was everyone else. She raised her hand and waited to be called on. After nearly 30 minutes of having her hand up and listening to everyone else's comments, she waved her hand at the teacher. "Little lady, we don't have time for your remarks, so we're going to move on." The pastor smiled at her and brought the class to a close with prayer. He was probably a bit younger than Sylvia was, and it had felt strange to be called, "Little lady."

Sylvia was really discouraged, actually. She had come to church hoping against hope that somehow she could have spiritual fellowship--even that someone would simply want to have a conversation with her. It had been very difficult to live where she knew no one else and it was hard to live in a world of silence--no conversations outside of the classroom--for this long. She came to church running on empty. There was no reserve left to cope with feeling overlooked again. She felt tears coming with her head bowed during prayer. The pastor finished praying and dismissed the class. No one on the right or the left of Sylvia greeted her or acknowledged her presence.

"I'm going to sit right here until someone speaks to me," she thought. She was really lonely and had an empty house to go back to after the service. She wondered if it was worth it emotionally, to be so far from home. She could go back to her accounting job with people she knew and was comfortable with. It was hard to even get to first base with these people. But for now, she couldn't stop the tears from coming down her face. So she sat quietly, wiping her tears from her face, looking around at the close little knots of people chatting together. As they slowly drifted out of the fellowship hall into the sanctuary, she was left sitting in the middle of about 50 empty folding chairs.

The pastor's wife and another woman, however, were still talking at the edge of the room. They were talking about how important it was to get the room ready for the potluck that was to follow the service. They began taking the chairs away, one at a time, folding them and stacking them at the side of the room. Sylvia stayed in her chair, her head down, wiping away her tears.

The women folded and stacked chair after chair, moving them back away from the middle of the room. Their voices rose and fell as they walked across the room, away from one another. Almost all the chairs were stacked and they were engrossed in conversation about a potluck dish when the unbelieveable happened. There were only three chairs left--and Sylvia was in one of them. One woman took the chair to the right of her, and the other scooped up the other chair--without losing a beat in their conversation. They neither stopped to ask Sylvia what was wrong, or to greet her. They didn't even glance back at her sitting in the only chair in the middle of the room, her head down. And they walked out into the sanctuary foyer to join the others.

So there Sylvia sat, alone. It was a deeper sense of loneliness than she had when she'd walked into church that morning. It would certainly not be relieved by staying, either. Her face wet with tears and her eyes reddened from crying, she walked out of the room and headed toward the front door of the church. There stood the pastor.
"Are you leaving us?"
"Yes."
"I hope you found a real blessing here."
Sylvia paused. "Are you serious?" She invited him outside the church where she explained what had just happened and how painful it had been for her. He of course, was horrified. "I just thought someone else was going to talk with you." But it was too late to fix what had already happened and Sylvia couldn't regain her composure. She thanked him for at least taking the time to greet her, and went home.

She curled up on her couch and called some friends when she got home. At least she could have contact with people, even if it was over the phone. She didn't tell anyone what had happened that morning because it was really embarassing to her. She was a woman of faith, and many of her friends were not Christians. How could she explain why she kept trying to connect?

Later in the afternoon Sylvia went out for a walk. She lived in a tiny house at the edge of a very bad section of town--skid row. People who were high would scream through the neighborhood, roaring in paranoid rantings at the top of their lungs. Other people slept on the sidewalks or were drunk, lying under trees. Undeterred by her surroundings, Sylvia made her way down the street toward a coffee shop. As she crossed the intersection she noticed a large crowd of people standing around someone on the corner. It was a street preacher. He wasn't the histrionic, arms waving sort of preacher. He was talking in a soft, appealing voice to the group of people who were wearing raggedy clothes and huddled together. She moved closer to hear what he was saying. A large, unkempt man at the edge of the crowd saw Sylvia and motioned for her to come stand in his place. "Come on, honey. There's room for you right here" he rasped around the two teeth he had left. "Come hear what the man's telling. You need to hear it, too."

The man didn't seem to notice that Sylvia's jeans didn't have holes in them and that her blouse was new. The crowd made room for her to stand, and a number of people smiled shyly at her. The preacher was explaining how Jesus loved everyone and that when He was on this earth, He would have spent time with each person in that group.
"You are important to God," he said warmly. "You matter to Him. And even though He doesn't walk on our streets today, you can be sure that He is always right next to you. So when you are lonely, you can talk to Him because He's right next to you and wants to hear what you have to say." He smiled at Sylvia.
"He wants to know what all of you think and how you feel. So talk to Him."

Tears began to form again in Sylvia's eyes, but this time, it was for another reason. She had been welcomed, reassured, included. She could smell the lady next to her, but that lady was smiling at her and patted her arm. She was a tattered wreck. "You come back next week, honey. We're here every Sunday."

It was not "Israel" that had given her a place. It was another group of unacceptable outsiders where Sylvia found spiritual communion.
We forget that it is not always those who say "Lord, Lord" who do the will of the Father. And God's words sometimes come through unlikely conduits.

Hear the word of the Lord.

Prayers

Found here

Sam and I just came back from visiting Stepdaughter #3 up near Santa Cruz. She is at a Christian boarding school right on the ocean--a gorgeous spot, surrounded by strawberry fields under plastic. Yes, the strawberries are planted in long plastic-covered mounds. The irrigation water runs in the trenches between the rows. In the sun these fields look like bodies of water: shiny, bluish-black, huge. Behind the campus, down at the edge of the beach, stands several large fields of flowers: tiger lillies, hyacinths, daffodils, and jonquils. They are part of the campus industry, I think. These numerous plants, plus the rich blackish-brown soil, brought real joy to this country girl's heart. Every time I visit Northern California I fantasize about how wonderful it would be to live in that gorgeous place. The marine layer brings in moist breezes every day. The sunsets over the ocean are beautiful. And the listening to the waves roaring from our guestroom put us to sleep every night. It couldn't have been nicer.

On Saturday morning Sam and I got up early and walked down to the beach. There was a man walking a dog, huge heaps of rolled up seaweed, and a large group of seagulls. Of course, the plovers were running back and forth on their stilty legs, in and out of the waves, putting in the first of their 1,000 miles for the day. The sky was overcast and the waves were pretty rough. We were both wrapped in scarves and heavy coats--it is winter there and between the 40 degree weather and the wind, we were cold.

We didn't do much, just walked a bit, took some pictures and chatted. However, it was a significant time for me. The last time I was there was in 1997. I had gone there alone to pray and think about what I should be doing with my life. My clinical faculty position was good but exhausting, and without tenure there was no possibility of long term security. I didn't have a clue about what to do, but I was getting to the point where I had to do something. I felt stuck. And sad.

I grew up in a household where Mother told the story about praying that the next man in the church door would be her husband--and it was my father. I heard, year after year, ad infinitum, this story of answered prayer. Year after year I also prayed for a husband and there was one comedy of a relationship after another--or even worse--nothing at all. What was wrong with my faith? Was I so defective that no matter what I did, I was hopeless? I'd gone to therapy. I'd asked friends for input about my social skills or if there was something about me that I couldn't see that was scaring off men. I'd prayed and prayed and prayed. And I joined a couple singles organizations, much to my chagrin. I'd gone on more horrible dates than many women I knew. They were disastrous experiences, but I had at least done my part. Now I had to make life plans and there was no one to make them with. Just me. I had very little guidance, no financial support, and few ideas about what to do.

So I walked on the beach every day during my silent retreat. I wasn't interested in much else--just talking to God, thinking about what to do, resting, and reading my Bible. The first day there, I walked down the beach talking to God about how much I wanted to find a life partner.

"They're all broken or the walking wounded" I told God. "Just like these smashed sand dollars. There isn't a one that is whole. They all have chips in them or the bottom is missing out of them."

I walked on in silence as a thought was born.

"God, I've never been one to ask for a sign, or for some special miracle when it comes to men (even though to have a man would be a miracle!) I know there are millions of men in this world--probably a hundred or so who would think I'm a good catch. I only need one, God. Just one. The right one--someone who I would be happy with. Someone who is whole--not broken like all these shells. Could I have just one whole sand dollar? And that would give me hope that there is one man left--a good choice--for me?"

There. I asked the hard question of God that I'd never asked before. I felt foolish to be almost 40 and asking this kind of question. But I didn't have to tell anyone about it. I didn't ask about it again while I was there, but I did walk up and down the beach every morning and evening, looking at the sand. There wasn't one sand dollar to be seen.

The whole weekend was one of prayer. I thought I should probably go off for my doctorate somewhere, although I had no idea how I'd pay for it or where I should go. Nor could I imagine that any school would take me. I did want to leave California for some reason. I wondered if I really belonged here, being a New Yorker and all. But leaving seemed to be the direction that came to me during this retreat. I couldn't see my way clear to do it yet, but perhaps in time it would all work out somehow.

Sunday morning came. It was time to go home. I had not found a sand dollar but I'd talked to God about everything in my life that I could think of. Now I needed to talk to God about what the no sand dollar meant for me. It seemed that whatever I was to do in my life, it would have to be done alone. There was not going to be a man in my life at this point.

As I slowly walked down to the end of the beach, I walked past a man and his son running in and out of the waves. They were looking for some kind of shell or who knows--maybe sand dollars. They were empty handed, but kept scanning the freshly exposed sand to see what was there. I concentrated on the sand where I was walking. Okay God, if You are going to answer my prayer, it should be now because I'm getting ready to go home. I strained my eyes and ploughed into the sand with my feet. Surely there could be just one sand dollar on this entire beach.

As I got to the place where I could not pass further, the waves beat on an outcropping of jagged rocks. It struck me that I was going to be alone from now on and God had chosen not to give me any sand dollars. Perhaps there wouldn't be a husband for me. It was time for me to make peace with God about this. I stood on the rocks watching the waves hit the black pointy places and breaking in wild sprays up into the air. I was really disappointed and started crying.

"God!" I cried out. "If I'm not to have a husband and there isn't anyone for me, please just help me not to be bitter. But to live a full life and still do all that is required of me. I just don't know how I can manage it without emotional support. I'm tired and very lonely, and this is so painful. I've felt like such a reject for so many years--been the brunt of so many jokes. But if this is my path, I need for You to walk it with me because I can't... I just can't..."

There are times when all the tears have been cried and the anguish has been expressed, and there is nothing more. This was such a time. I'd been hoping for 20 years.

"Just please help me to be full-hearted and help me to do all that You have for me to do in this life." Then I added, "I know that Your will is perfect and that You have a thousand ways to provide for me that I know nothing about. I'll still trust You and believe in You, regardless. But my faith is little. I need You very much now as I go back and try to do what I'm supposed to do with my life."

It had been a silly thing really, to ask God to give me an unbroken sand dollar. But, I reasoned, He could have done it. And we're told to ask God for things. If my mother's prayer was answered because it was a reflection of her faith, why couldn't mine? I was embarassed by the simplicity of my own prayer, but keenly aware of my need.



I started back to the car. It was packed and ready to go at the top of the path down to the beach. I needed to "set my face as a flint" and go back to the busy life I had, to try to be useful and to make plans for myself to go to school. I was so disappointed though.

As I stepped ahead, my foot hit something hard. I looked down. There was a perfect sand dollar. It was teeny--about the size of a quarter. Hmmm. I smiled.

Thank you, God. It wasn't a stupid prayer.

It was small, but it was perfect and that was what I had asked for.

Smiling from ear to ear, I walked back toward the man and his son, still running back and forth in the waves. In the 300 feet it took me to get to them, I found 11 more complete, perfect sand dollars. Exactly where I had walked every day, and just a few moments before, scouring the sand, turning over every shell, digging my toes down into the sand--where there had been nothing for days. Now I had 12 sand dollars.



Isn't that just like God, I thought. Wait until the last minute, when all human resources have been exhausted, and when we begin to rest in what God can do for us--in faith.
My prayer had been answered twelve times over. I didn't think that just because I asked God for a husband who would be whole, just like a whole sand dollar, that I would suddenly have a husband. Or 12 husbands, or a husband in 12 years, or any other literal interpretation of what had just happened. I had wanted a sign that God could do what I wanted desperately to have done for me, that I couldn't do myself. And He could, and He did. I pictured God smiling over this little event. Yes, I am trustworthy, even when you don't think you can manage any more. And I will give you much more than you asked for. That's how I AM.



Was that the last time I wondered about getting married? No. But I had proof that God could respond to me in a way that I could understand, even if my faith dictated a prayer that others would not have prayed. I came home with my sand dollars and put them where I could see them often. A few were sent off to friends who were struggling with similar concerns. Something within me felt at peace.



So Saturday morning, it was fulfilling to stand on the beach with my arms around Sam, and thank God aloud that I could be there with my Promise.



I know that this story will turn off some people--those who don't believe in signs (yes, I have really been skeptical of these kinds of things, too), or who have other ways of thinking about what happened. But I wanted to share it here, because my prayers, wrung from my very sincere, longing heart, were responded to by a very great God.
He is able.

Never Forget

We had a most interesting experience in class today. My students observed me doing therapy with a young woman who is recovering from sexual abuse during her teenage years (this was with her permission, of course). This woman is a pastor who has had tremendous struggles coming to terms with what she considers her "part" in making the abuse happen.
Even though she was the child and the adult is responsible for protecting her.
Even though she felt threatened.
Even while everyone looked up to her as the "perfect" student.

This woman is one of the bravest people I can imagine--weekly doing battle with her inner demons. I try very hard to balance my challenges with warm support so she doesn't give up. There is so much work to be done.

And she feels that since she is a pastor, she should be able to transcend all that has happened to her. She should be able to forgive her abuser and then to forgive herself. But she can't bring herself to pray to God about any of this, or even to have a conversation with Him about what has happened. "Because then I'll have to forgive [my abuser] because God will forgive me and I'll be obligated to in turn, forgive. I can't yet."

Five students were seated on the other side of the one way mirror, taking in what we were doing only feet away from them. They were so close that they later said they could almost feel her breathing.
By arrangement, after 40 minutes of our work, we turned off the light on our side of the mirror and turned on the speaker in their room. One by one, the students began to think aloud about what they had been hearing and what issues they thought of, or what they wondered about as they listened. My pastor client took in every word. At one point, she looked at me and mouthed, "This is really interesting!" The students were not addressing her, just having a conversation together, creating hypotheses, and identifying issues and ideas that may have some interest to us for future work. After about 10 minutes of discussion, the lights and microphone came back on at our side of the mirror and we pondered what had been said.

This is called a Reflecting Team. It is a way to stir the pot, so to speak. A way to get input from more than the therapist. It feels odd in the beginning, but most people are intrigued by the insights that others have on them--things that neither they nor their therapist have verbalized. At one point when a student mentioned the Scarlet Letter, and how that identity can be hard to relinquish, my client cringed. She wanted to talk about this later. She wanted to tell me about her scarlet letter--it was a black, half-dead, silver-dollar-sized spot on her heart. She knew what to do with that part of her heart: ignore it, hide it, stay busy and talking about nonessential issues to distract people from seeing that sore spot. But she did not want to give it up. Even though our work had made it smaller--it was her Black Spot and she was not ready to say goodbye to it.

She was startled by this realization. Who would want to hold on to pain and disfigurement?

I have been thinking about this idea tonight, and I think we all have some wound that defines us in some unique way. It is hard to give it up sometimes. After all, our struggle with that wound has made us who we are--we have received secondary gain by talking with others about it. We have battle scars from it. Grappling with it has made us stronger and able to cope with future, smaller battles. As strange as it seems, we don't want to say goodbye to it forever. How will we remember all that the wound represents? For some people, these battle scars become grievance stories. For some of us, the battle scars remind us of how we have gotten where we are now in spite of everything. Perhaps the challenge of recovery work in therapy is changing the meaning of the scars: from grievance story to symbol of victory. That is my wish for my client, and it is what my students later told me, as they thought aloud about this Reflecting Team experience.

I imagine that during the ceaseless ages we shall be able to look at the nail scars in Jesus' hands and feet. It is important that we not forget what salvation has cost heaven. Those hands and feet represent victory of the greatest kind.

We are all scarred and bruised as we go through life--from one thing or another. It is part of the human condition. Our wounds can be safely relinquished to God, with considerable processing and tearfulness. We can give them up without losing the meaning of them--without forgetting who we have had the grace to become in spite of these wounds. Eventually we are left with symbols of being able to survive--of victory and hope. I am truly grateful for this hope that we all can have.

Timeless Message

Gifts From Abroad

I have bacterial pneumonia. It hit me like a brick--suddenly, out of the blue. Almost instantly I was congested, feverish, hacking, and with a sore throat that feels like I'm swallowing razor blades every time I cough or swallow. I knew it was not good when it was apparent that none of my home remedies even made a dent in it. Sleeping didn't help. Steam tents didn't break up the rattle in my chest. And as I fell asleep I could hear my lungs sounding like a concertina--rasping and rattling away.

The doctor was fresh out of medical school and looked like a good wind could blow him over. He chided me for using "cooling measures" and seemed to enjoy making the point that this idea is out of date. I only need to keep my head cool, not try to reduce my fever.
He listened to my chest thoughtfully. He thumped my back and listened to my heart. He wasn't too swift with the tongue blade, but then he wasn't sure that those were my tonsils hanging down inside my throat until I told him that I still had them. That did not inspire confidence.

But when he conferred with his attending--my regular doctor--they came back with a regimen of antibiotics and strict orders to stay in bed. Which is why I'm sitting up and writing this right now...He said that they believe I brought this back from Peru and it suddenly hit me after my antibiotic regimen for traveler's sickness was finished.

My chest x-ray looked hazy this morning. Blood cultures and lab work are pending. I'm just so grateful for antibiotics because after taking two doses I already am starting to feel a small measure of relief.

Last night as I lay on the couch waiting for Sam to pick up the medications, I was having a hard time breathing. The heat from my 103 degree fever emanated off my face and I was shaking with chills. I recalled the death scene from the book, Christi, where a young woman succumbed to something or another. It was a long drawn out agonizing time for those sitting with her, trying in vain to help. She died very young. Without antibiotics, I could have died. Never have I felt so ill before--just utterly unable to do anything for myself and miserable beyond words.

Today I'm again grateful that science has provided us with antibiotics. We get them so quickly and take them for granted. People in other parts of the world do not have this luxury. Perhaps their general health is better somehow, or they have more natural immunity. After this experience being in Peru, I'm not sure I care to travel abroad again. But I realize that my health is more important than many other things and it needs to be protected. At my age, good health does not happen by accident. I'm just grateful that an end is in sight to all this.

Uncertain Love

I love this picture and I love what it says about my precious husband. I took it after Sam and I had gotten married and were having our first visit with the rest of the family. Sam is shown here with my nephew, Leonard, who appears to be rather uncertain about this man hugging on him. Sam could not have been more pleased to have a new nephew who could sometimes be goofy, sometimes warm, sometimes playful--just like him.

I've written other posts about Sam's hugging of people--it is a wonderful, Latin habit of his. After being in Peru, I'm thinking seriously about being more like him. It is a lovely way of being. You hug people to greet them and to say goodbye. And you can hug them any number of times in between. Sam is a very warm, personable man whom I adore. His warmth has endeared him to many people. Just not Leonard yet (in this picture).

This picture reminds me of my prayer this morning on my walk. I was talking to God about how many times He's pulled me through tight situations. I've learned to trust Him and know something about His steadfastness. I also have learned about His miracles and ability to pull something marvelous--greater than anything we can imagine--out of thin air. So His majesty and ability to provide for me are not in question. There are times I'm called to wait--more times than I wish--but experience has proven that He is trustworthy and does the right thing at the right time. I would not wish things different if I could see the end from the beginning--I'm convinced of that. But what I'm not so sure about is God's loves for me.

Oh yes, the Bible is clear about how much God loves us. The entire Bible is one story after another that demonstrates the way God treats us. But recently, in my own life, I have not focused on God's love for me and it is not what is foremost when I approach Him. I've focused on doing the right things or asking Him to use me, or what I would like Him to do for other people. I've marveled aloud to Him about the things He has done and the perfect timing of His will and ways. I've thanked Him over and over for numerous things every day: my health, job, husband, family, home, opportunities, hope, the morning skies--all the beauty and loveliness of a Southern California winter morning.

Therapists call this, aboutism. Talking about everything outside of the room and not what is in the room: the therapist and the client, and what is happening between them. So when I stop a client's long story about what happened when they got angry last week with their gardener and how they told him off, their eyes flashing and fists clenching, I have to stop them and ask them about the here-and-now: "And what's happening while you're telling me this right now?" Suddenly they can see me. I'm not invisible any more while their eyes focus on what happened in another time and place. We begin talking about what is in the room and everything changes.

As far as knowing that God loves me, Barbara, more than I can imagine--this is something that I've not thought of for some time. I feel like Leonard in the picture: standing close to God but there's something in the eyes that tells you that love is not foremost in his mind at this point. Even in the face of the most generous, unabashed displays of affection. I've been so busy talking to God about other people and situations that need His intervention that I've stopped seeing Him. I've been lost in aboutism.

If I think ahead to the future of living forever with God, knowing that the timing or miracles of Jesus are perfect and greater than anything we can imagine--these things will not sustain a relationship over millions of years. But God's love for me, this will sustain me. I asked God to forgive me this morning, for always approaching Him out of my own selfish needs and ideas. But as a human, is there much else I can do? Even my reaching out for God comes out of an awareness that I need something different than what I have within myself.

Perhaps God's love is this: He stays near to me in spite of myself--my inability to think the way He does, to be selfless and filled with faith. He keeps giving in the face of my stinginess. The wonderful gifts of husband, home, job that I love--these only continue to grow in goodness--in spite of the fact that I don't deserve even one of them. The sacrifice of heaven in sending Jesus down here so I can hope--so that my morning walks with Him can be fearless, eager conversations with my Papi--my Abba. It could be that if I were suddenly bereft of God, faith in the knowledge of who He is and what He can do, that I would recognize how much I love Him.

The illusiveness of my love for God. If I could just get it out in the open, I could celebrate it. For now, I mull it over in my mind, continue to talk with God about it, and look more closely for evidence and application of His love to me, Barbara. I'm glad He is big enough to entertain my attempts to find and hold Him close, even while He holds me very close.

I have loved thee with an everlasting love.

Therefore with lovingkindness have I drawn thee.

This One Thing I Know

This is the textbook I'm using in my practicum class this year. It is full of helpful essays about what spirituality is, what religion is, various practices and attitudes about both, and how to incorporate them into therapy appropriately. It has been a godsend, therapeutically speaking.

My students came into class today with expressions on their faces of dread. One guy said it well as he was leaving: "I really hated the thought of this class--all it stands for and what I was thinking would happen. But this is what I've been waiting for. What faculty member do you hear praying before class starts? Where else in this program can we talk this way?" Turning to me he continued, "When you prayed today, I felt a little something" pointing to his chest. "I love this."

I was grateful for the story I heard in church this week, that I opened my class with: a girl was told that her schnauzer dog's coat would be much improved if she gave him a tablespoon of caster oil every week. She decided she would follow this advice. So every week she would wrestle her dog into a head lock, force open his jaw, and pour the caster oil down his throat, rubbing his neck to make it go down. It was always a battle of the will for both of them.
The girl only had to open the cupboard and reach for a spoon, and the dog would disappear under the couch or behind a chair, in dread of the horrid headlock, etc. One day, during their weekly struggle, the dog kicked the bottle of caster oil over on the floor--an awful-smelling, sticky mess. The girl ran for the paper towels to get it cleaned up. When she returned to the kitchen, imagine her shock to see the dog standing in the middle of the caster oil, lapping it up as fast as he could go. He liked caster oil! He just didn't like the way it was given to him.

We are surrounded by people who would be attracted to Jesus if we didn't get in the way of the natural attraction He holds out to people. I reminded my class of this today, with the silent prayer that the spiritualist, the cut-and-dried fundamentalist Christian, the pastor, the Mormon, and the backslidden Adventist, would be able to form a classroom spiritual community of solidarity. As we discuss issues of demon possession, dangers of reparative therapy for gays and lesbians, spirit guides, sweat lodge practices, and marriage for time and eternity, I will be praying the whole time. I believe God will be with us in our diversity and desire to honor Him--even if we worship the representation of Him that looks different from the others in the room.

So how is all the classroom teaching going? It will be well with my soul. I'm tired with a "good" tired feeling, a satisfaction that things have gone better than I planned, and the realization that I am finally home, academically. What a blessing.

On the cusp of a big day

Tomorrow I teach my first course entitled "Clinical-IV." It is supposed to be the capstone course in a series of four rather vague doctoral-level classes about professional development. I have absolutely no idea of what I'm doing in teaching this class!

The students first take a class entitled, "Meaning." It is about the ways we attribute meaning to things that happen in our lives. Postmodernist ideas are introduced as well as ways to include them in therapy. The second class is called "Natural Systems" and is about how to use oneself in therapy--our feelings, personalities, tendencies, beliefs, etc. The third course (and these are not given in order here) is called "Cybernetics," which covers general family systems theories. Now I'm saddled with a class that is supposed to help the students pull all of this together and help them create a theory of their own. They will then be able to discuss and demonstrate this theory and how they use it in something called a Qualifying Clinical Demonstration--set in front of all of their colleagues, formatted like a professional conference presentation is.

Sounds terrific, doesn't it? Only, I'm sitting here after burning out my brain all day, trying to figure out how in the world to teach this. What readings to use? How to create a syllabus? How on earth to discuss these issues for a three-hour slot every week? Is this something that could hold the interest of the students? Do I even know enough to be able to get them to think about what they do in therapy?

It's interesting and unfortunate that even though I finished my degree four years ago, I am studying more now than I ever did in school! This quarter I will have taught six classes, or 20 hours of graduate coursework--two of the courses I've never taught before. I am the professor of record for nine courses this term. I am also the chair of five dissertations and serving on four other dissertation committees. Oh my goodness...

So as I sit here, my brain freezing up, feeling dumber than dirt, I have to remind myself that this thing will come together somehow. I will just wake up tomorrow at the crack of dawn and try to put pen to paper and create something interesting.